


I'm in love with the sound (of distant sirens)

by attemptnumbereleven



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, I'm Sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attemptnumbereleven/pseuds/attemptnumbereleven
Summary: 'The moonlight beams through the only window in the backroom of the museum, illuminating the once-filled glass display cases. In the middle of the room is of course Fonollosa, fastening a briefcase far too calmly for a man on the run."Fonollosa," Martín drawls, working very hard to keep the stoic, calm, badass facial expression on his face. "To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you on a cold winter night like this?"The smile that spreads across Fonollosa's face reflects the light just so, his teeth shining like diamonds. Or just a ton of tiny daggers. Probably a ton of tiny daggers."You must know the drill by now, Officer Berrote. Museums are like prisons for artefacts as special as these," Fonollosa lifts out a string of diamonds as if in demonstration, almost as if he was selling to Martín on one of those godawful television shopping channels. "I'm simply liberating these poor jewels. I'll take much better care of them, I promise. You have my word, Officer Berrote."The man makes a good case. A case so good that Martín hardly realises that he's lowered his gun.'
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 22
Kudos: 42





	I'm in love with the sound (of distant sirens)

**Author's Note:**

> Right. 
> 
> So I know that I really should be writing 'Or Sink' (and that cute little restaurant AU- promise I'll get back to that one too), but I couldn't get this out of my head. I got a bit obsessed in this world. 
> 
> Maybe we can blame Taylor Swift and Haim's 'no body, no crime', because all that's in my head right now is 'I think he did it, but I just can't prove it' on LOOP. 
> 
> I'm already thinking about it as a full-length. Please let me know what you think - if you'd like a full length, slow-burn (?) of this world? Of course, after I finish 'Or Sink'! 
> 
> Lots of love friends xxx

Martín likes to think that he's a good person.

As a child, he'd been admonished at school, at home, on the street outside when playing with the neighbour's kids, told that he wasn't a good kid. That he'd amount to nothing. By his teens, he'd resigned himself to the fact that he would never be a good person. It was destined to be. Coming out certainly hadn't helped on that front, other than giving him the final push to leave Argentina and never look back. A fresh start, pastures new, a sea of new people to introduce himself to. He would have complete control in which Martín Berrote these strangers would meet. He was determined that he'd introduce himself as a good person. The good person that he'd known, at his core, that he was.

And saying it to others was one thing (thinking, and therefore being, and all that shit), but he'd also vowed to put this whole 'good person' thing into practice. It just so happened that the Police Academy had been recruiting in his first week in Madrid. So that was that. There was no one better than the Police, right? People who desperately would risk their lives to protect others from the definitive 'bad people' of the world? 

So when Martín gets the call on an otherwise uneventful Wednesday night in the middle of December, he's ready. Equipped with seven years of experience under his belt and with the determination to make good on his word, he puts his siren on and whizzes through the city to the location. He's the first there, by the looks of it, which makes sense, he knew there was a shortage of patrolling officers tonight. Typical. 

His radio's cutting in and out frantically with officers giving their ETAs. No one for another eight minutes, at least. 

Well that simply won't do, will it? 

As he checks his pistols with his left hand, his right is raising his radio to his lips in preparation, anticipation. 

"I'm going in." 

And he does, through the back door, torch strategically placed above his gun, clearing the room. No sign, of anything, actually. To Martín's frustration, the power's been cut. Of course it has. He tightens his hold on his torch, sending a prayer to a God he doesn't actually believe in that his battery will last him through the night.

He's done this before. It would be comfortingly familiar, if not such a high stakes situation. This location, this sequence, this solo mission, this crime, this _criminal_. 

Sometimes Martín likes to think that he tries to get caught on purpose. He must do. Some criminals act in the way they do for revenge, for money, as an outlet for anger, hurt, pain, all of it. Not many steal jewels for the art of it. Most criminals have egos. Martín's been in enough interrogation rooms to know that. Some criminals are sociopaths, psychopaths.

Fonollosa is something else entirely. And he definitely wants to be caught tonight. 

Martín climbs the stairs, not bothering to check the rooms he passes. He knows where he is. He's predictable by now. 

There's something quite comforting in finding a nemesis. Someone to obsess over, to figure out. An opponent. Someone to understand. There's something loving in it, an adoration, an appreciation for the other person. Except Martín's goal is supposed to be to imprison the man, not to bed him. Well. That could work too. He's rather magnanimous. In another world, maybe-

Martín turns the corner, grip tightening on his pistol. He hopes to not use it tonight. He has a feeling it might be on the cards, though.

The moonlight beams through the only window in the backroom of the museum, illuminating the once-filled glass display cases. In the middle of the room is of course Fonollosa, fastening a briefcase far too calmly for a man on the run. 

"Fonollosa," Martín drawls, working very hard to keep the stoic, calm, badass facial expression on his face. "To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you on a cold winter night like this?"

The smile that spreads across Fonollosa's face reflects the light just so, his teeth shining like diamonds. Or just a ton of tiny daggers. Probably a ton of tiny daggers. 

"You must know the drill by now, Officer Berrote. Museums are like prisons for artefacts as special as these," Fonollosa lifts out a string of diamonds as if in demonstration, almost as if he was selling to Martín on one of those godawful television shopping channels. "I'm simply liberating these poor jewels. I'll take much better care of them, I promise. You have my word, Officer Berrote." 

The man makes a good case. A case so good that Martín hardly realises that he's lowered his gun.

Fonollosa stands, seemingly unbothered as to Martín's arrival. Martín watches him scan the rest of the room, the fucker seriously double-checking that he's stolen everything. 

"You could go for the lightbulbs, you might get a couple euros on the black market for them at least. Tell the poor buyers that they're illustrious, magic eggs of some description." 

The chess match begins. Or is it nearly ending? 

Fonollosa chuckles, a deep resonance bouncing around the room. An objectively delicious sound. He approaches before slowly lowering his briefcase. In front of Martín's feet. Of course. Fucker. 

He's done this dance with him before. And yet, it hasn't become boring. The staring match, the pointed jokes, the banter, some light flirting, the mysterious and sudden getaway, Martín's frustrated claims of being 'this close to getting him' this time. Only problem is, he's not sure which stage they're in right now. 

Okay, maybe it's not the only problem here. The other problem, is that Martín has come to rather enjoy everything that comes before 'the mysterious and sudden getaway', and in their recent showdowns, Martín's found himself doing everything in his power to extend it. 

The other problem (okay, so maybe there is a small list of problems currently existing here) is that he thinks, _knows,_ that Fonollosa is doing the exact same thing. 

"So, how has your day been?" 

Martín has no other option than to laugh at that. 

"Think we're a bit past small talk, don't you think, Andrés?" 

It's completely irrelevant that Martín's gun is safely back in its holster at this point.

"Maybe," Andrés muses, fiddling with his cufflinks in a way that Martín's come to read as a sign of nervousness. Nervous? Tonight? This is just a tiny museum, the value of the pieces negligible, the security meek (which is saying something considering that Fonollosa has already robbed the place. Twice.) and the police force weak. In more ways than one, you could probably argue. "How long have I got?" 

"Four minutes." Martín takes a minute off of his own estimations to account for the fact that Murillo, in spite of her occupation, drives without any regard for anyone's safety when a crime is involved. She'll be the next one here. Guaranteed. He should probably bet on it. Maybe he'll ask Andrés for a bet next time they do this. 

One of them has the other in check. The problem (the list is growing longer and longer at this rate) is that Martín can't quite tell who. It's probably Andrés. It's normally Andrés. It's definitely Andrés.

Andrés hums, a beautiful and familiar sound. He's thinking. Never a good sign. The 'mysterious and sudden getaway' must be getting close. A shame, really. Martín didn't even get to do that much of the 'light flirting' segment this time. 

Martín's radio crackles. It's Murillo's voice that sounds out of it, breathless. 

"Martín! I can't get through this damned traffic! Who goes out driving at this time of night? Everyone apparently!...MOVE! I'm police, idiot!" The ensuing curses that come out of the radio are forgotten the moment Andrés speaks again. 

"So maybe not four minutes." Andrés grins, and against Martín's better judgement, he's thrilled too. 

"Maybe not. Can I offer you four more minutes?"

"Pity. I needed nine tonight." 

"I'd better break out the cuffs now then." 

"Please be gentle on my wrists, Martín. Last time was not enjoyable." 

"It was enjoyable for me."

Okay, so maybe he was able to get some flirtation in there after all. A talent. This is his favourite bit of it all. 

The radio sounds again. Raquel's voice pierces through the delicate layer of sexual tension Martín had been working rather hard to build in the last minute or so. 

"Martín! What's happening over there? Are you dead?" 

Martín doesn't take his eyes off Andrés (and if he even had the ability to, he probably wouldn't anyway, it's becoming a real issue) as he raises the speaker to his lips and speaks. He's already made his decision before any words come out. A decision made a long time ago now. 

"I'm not dead. Thank you for asking. But Fonollosa's not here. I'm too late. I've swept all the rooms, no sign of entry or exit. Like a fucking ghost."

Martín likes to think that he's a good person. But that's a very different thing to being a good person, which he, um, certainly, most definitely, is not. 

"Fuck!" Raquel shouts a few more expletives down the radio, and Martín can't tell whether that's aimed at the traffic or at the newest miss of Fonollosa. She's calling off the other officers, but Martín can't hear her. 

Fuck indeed. 

Martín has just enough time to mutter something into the radio about checking the CCTV (that he knows full well Andrés has already disabled) before Andrés's hands are on him, backing him into a pillar. 

Oh, it's like this tonight, then? 

Martín gasps the words 'three minutes' against Andrés's lips, a futile effort at controlling the situation, but an effort nonetheless. Let the records show that he at least tried tonight!

Andrés kisses the way that he steals. And it's intoxicating. _Aggressively delicate_ , he'd called it once. Andrés had laughed before kissing him again, seemingly satisfied with that appraisal. 

And who is Martín to refuse? Who is Martín to do anything else other than to volley back every kiss, every grab at his shirt, every grasp at his cheek? 

Andrés breaks away, only to reattach at Martín's neck and it takes everything in him to not give in and to instead return to earth and lightly push Andrés back.

"That wasn't three minutes."

"Go. Before I change my mind. I can always radio her back. Tell her I've found you in a closet somewhere." Martín breathes, feebly smoothing his shirt. 

Andrés just grins at him, leaning down to pick up the briefcase again, planting a quick, sweet, chaste kiss to Martín's lips, before leaving the same way Martín came in. 

And just like that, it's over. He's gone. Again. 

It's this bit where he becomes rather thankful for the theatre classes he pretended not to enjoy at a teen, as Raquel rushes up the stairs a whole four (Martín's also grateful for his exceptional timekeeping skills) minutes later. 

"I swear to god, the day I catch that fucker-"

"Martín, it's okay. Next time." Raquel's so lovely. She's the only one that he can actually tolerate at the station, and it shows, he doesn't make much of an effort with anyone else. Why should he? 

"If I'd just been here a minute earlier-"

"Stop. Shh," Her hands are on his shoulders, her hold firm. "You'll drive yourself crazy thinking like that." 

He goes through the motions. Takes the notes he needs to take. Answers the questions he needs to answer. Takes the photos he needs to takes. Walks Raquel back to her car. Gives her a hug for good measure. Watches her drive away. 

When he returns to his own squad car, and sits down in the driver's seat, he removes his holster, and puts the key in the ignition. The routine. Home is next. 

"What do you fancy for dinner?" Andrés asks beside him, looking extremely comfortable for a man who's sitting in the front of a police car, with hundreds of thousands of euros worth of jewellery in a briefcase at his feet. "I've got a simply exquisite bottle of wine waiting for us in the kitchen, but what to pair it with?" 

"Did you use those steaks I got at the market at the weekend?" 

"I didn't! Fabulous idea. Now tell me, Martín, cariño. Was today the day you caught the crook?" 

Andrés's hand finds Martín's knee comfortably as they drive closer and closer to home and further and further away from the risk. 

He lied. This is his favourite bit. 

"Andrés. You know that there's not a criminal on this earth that I cannot catch." 

There's that grin again. Andrés's teeth, this time shining brighter than any of the diamonds stowed safely at his feet. 


End file.
